


Education, Education, Education and War

by NothingRiddikulus



Category: Cosmere - Brandon Sanderson, Stormlight Archive - Brandon Sanderson
Genre: Gen, Kaladin is a nerd, and a little bit bitter, and yeah basically this is a self indugent one shot about Kal loving to learn, not a sad fic per se but kinda bittersweet in places?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-16
Updated: 2017-08-16
Packaged: 2018-12-16 07:44:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 798
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11824197
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NothingRiddikulus/pseuds/NothingRiddikulus
Summary: Kaladin opened the book's cover slowly. And then he shut it. And then he opened it fast, flipping through the pages and brushing his fingertips against them, grinning like a child when his eyes caught on an illustration he remembered fondly in amongst the rush of ink. He plunged his face into the pages and smelled them.Kaladin uses his time alone to indulge in a hobby he has missed.





	Education, Education, Education and War

Kaladin ran through the warcamp and the rain and back to the barracks, his heart in every part of his body. The pathetic amount of water brought by the weepings was still enough to press his hair to his forehead. In other places the moisture made his curls stick out like an axehound’s antennae. It made him look young, like he was fifteen again.

In some ways, Kaladin supposed, he had not progressed since the age of fifteen; He never _had_ finished his apprenticeship.

Shivering his way to his sleeping area in the barracks, Kaladin was relieved to see that he’d been right in assuming bridge four would be gone. He’d politely declined their offer of another drinking competition in order to have some time to himself, but he’d been worried one or two of his men might come back earlier than planned. Kal reached under his coat and brought out the precious object he’d been protecting from the rain. It was a book. The woman he’d bought it from had frowned at him, and asked if it was for his wife. He’d stuttered out a few phrases about his mother and then ran out before she could see how wet his eyes were. 

Ducking behind another store, Kaladin had ran calloused fingers over the thick cover of the book, feeling the engraved words on his skin. The very act of doing this, as he had with his father’s copy of the book years ago, filled him with emotion. For a minute he could ignore that touch was the only way he recognised the book’s title. He did not remember it, and the words were in women’s script.

It had always felt so strange to Kaladin to learn from something so obviously not meant for him. His apprenticeship made him rich in knowledge and yet compared to most women he was as ignorant as a baby. Poring over this book so many times as a youth meant every sketch was known to him, every bone, every blood vessel. And yet the descriptions that accompanied them were forever forbidden to him. It made him angry, but he was forbidden that anger, and he had always pressed it down to the darkest depths of himself, beneath his spear and his cussing mouth, and the knots at his shoulders. 

Back in the bridgeman barracks, Kaladin opened the book. He had not dared to do so until now. Why would he, when he did not speak of his parents? When he found it hard to unlock the chest of knowledge inside him. Sharing it hurt, so why would he share this book with strangers? Why would he give them his expression as he took in those pages again? Why would he let them into his memories? The thought of it made him tremble.

(Not to mention, the pages would have gotten wet in the rain.)

Kaladin opened the cover slowly. And then he shut it. And then he opened it fast, flipping through the pages and brushing his fingertips against them, grinning like a child when his eyes caught on an illustration he remembered fondly in amongst the rush of ink. He plunged his face into the pages and smelled them. This book did not smell the same as his parents’ copy had. He didn’t know if that made him happy or sad.

Kaladin loved this book. He loved the glyphs that accompanied body parts and hung under chapter headings. He loved the care taken in the gorgeous illustrations. He loved that this book told him not only how to heal but how to prevent. He’d listened to his mother read out explanations of illnesses, descriptions of anatomy, and he’d felt the feeling that comes with learning more than you need about a topic you love. He loved this book because it taught him more than was necessary. For Kaladin was _greedy_ for knowledge.

After Kaladin had smelled the book, he began to look through it for anything he didn’t recognise. Though it was the same book he’d used as a boy, this copy was a later edition. Chewing his lip in concentration, Kaladin was excited to find that the section on rotspren had been expanded, and that in the five years since he’d seen the book, three more bones had been discovered by researchers in Kharbranth. Better yet, a whole new chapter on head injuries was included. Kaladin sighed.

Curling up in his bedsheets, Kal ran his hands over the cover once more. Then he opened the book again, and began to commit everything he could to memory. If he could not learn, then he would just have to memorise everything he knew. Because without knowing women’s script, how _could_ he learn. 

There was, after all, no one to teach him.


End file.
